


The One Where Crowley Wants Soup

by abblepie



Series: Sudfield Cottage [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, No Sex, No Smut, Rating May Change?, Sickfic, Tags May Update, or it was meant to be before it got out of hand, rating updated because of swears, some tags are for later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2020-11-27 21:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20954876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abblepie/pseuds/abblepie
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley did a little bit of soul melding during a dramatic proposal, and now things are a bit... off.Or: what was supposed to be a Sickfic that got way out of hand, like my stories always seem to do.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look. I was writing this, and then I started to wonder what exactly the point of it was, but it was mostly written anyway and I did enjoy it myself. So if even one person likes the hijinks or thinks it's soft or something, it's worth it to share it. Right? Right. Hopefully.
> 
> Anyway, this happens directly after _The One Where Crowley Knits_, which is the second story in this series. (_Calico Skies_ is between them serially, but not chronologically.) You don't _need_ to read that story to get this one, but it might help if you read at least the last little bit? Where they're actually on the picnic. Long story short, they did sort of a mind meldy thing that got a bit out of hand and God casually stepped in and split them up. This story starts the next day.
> 
> I plan to update about once a week. It's currently about 9000 words, and I edit and revise bit by bit before posting, so it's liable to get a bit longer. Not sure how many chapters I'll post it as, but we'll see!

It was peaceful evenings like these, Aziraphale reflected, that made him quite pleased he and Crowley had managed to save the world after all. Everything felt quieter than usual, right on the edge of lonely, but certainly peaceful. It was nice, it was something he hadn’t felt in a while. Or perhaps he had, and it was simply the sort of experience that slipped from your mind as soon as you left it.

He sipped his tea mildly as he settled onto the bench, looking out through the garden at the peachy sky. The sun was just dipping below the horizon, painting the clouds deep reds and indigos in complicated slips of color. 

All as peaceful, perfect, as it should be. 

It was chilly, to be sure, but Aziraphale had a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck -- a scarf made by his beloved Crowley, no less -- and a new ring around his finger[1], and--

“Angel!” 

Ah, he could almost imagine that a voice was calling for him from the far bedroom of the house, rattling through the shutters rudely. But that couldn’t be, because he’d only just sat down and he’d asked, _begged_ Crowley to give him just a moment of peace. He’d been caring for a seemingly feverish demon for about fourteen hours, but it felt more like fourteen centuries. 

Not that he didn’t love Crowley. He did, dearly. But he would also love one blooming moment of rest if such a thing existed any longer.

“An_gel!_” His voice was surprisingly strong and unbelievably persistent.

Aziraphale shut his eyes and took a deep breath. He reminded himself, for the upteenth time, that patience was a virtue, and stepped inside the cottage.

It was a modest place, but comfortable[2]. The front door opened into the kitchen, and from there one could either walk straight into the den or take the short hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom.

Crowley’s insistent cry rose again from the master bedroom. Aziraphale might have been worried if not for the heavy taste of mischief that radiated out from its demonic epicenter. It tasted like fresh fruit and burning pine and the bright sting of alcohol. It tasted like _Crowley_.

Aziraphale poked his head into their bedroom. “Yes, my love?” he asked with all the sweetness he could muster. 

Crowley was all curled up in a vortex of every single blanket they owned, and a few extra he seemed to have pulled from the ether. His yellow eyes blinked out over top of the pile pitifully. Since he’d been tucked into bed, his pupils had been wide and dilated. Nearly round, really. It was endearing, in a way, but also a bit worrying.

Crowley mumbled something through the blankets, and Aziraphale frowned. _Now_ he felt like being quiet.

“What’s that?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Pretty,” Crowley repeated. His eyes sparkled, partially with fever but partially, Aziraphale suspected, with mischief. “You are. You’re gorgeous.”

Good _lord._ He didn’t seem entirely coherent.

“Ah, yes, well. That’s very sweet of you, dear,” Aziraphale said, walking over to pat his forehead. When his fingers brushed against Crowley’s skin, he felt as though he’d jabbed a fork into a wall socket. If such a jolt was pleasant. 

What a peculiar fever. Crowley was burning up still, the warmth somehow hitting even Aziraphale in an overwhelming wave that flowed through his whole body. It made his head go a bit fuzzy. He’d no idea that snakes could even _get_ this warm. His feet had always been like blocks of ice if he curled around the angel in his sleep. 

Aziraphale tried to remember what he had been doing. All he _wanted_ to do was to curl up around Crowley and never let him budge again. 

“Is that all you wanted?” Aziraphale asked. “To… comment on my appearance?”

Crowley shut his eyes and leaned into the touch, humming. “Radiant. Ought to tell you more often,” he said. “Think it all the time.”

Aziraphale was only blushing a bit, a fact which he was rather proud of. He felt he ought to pull his hand away from Crowley, but couldn’t for the life of him think of a reason why. “Well. Ah, thank you, my dear --”

“_Husband,_” Crowley whispered, his own hand snaking -- _hah_ \-- out from the blankets so he could stare at the ring on his fourth finger. When he’d tried to propose to the angel with a ring he’d bought in town, Aziraphale had returned the favor by granting him his own golden ring. It looked quite dashing with Crowley’s eyes, even bright with fever as they were.

“Well, we aren’t married quite _yet_,” he reminded Crowley, and good _lord_ once more because was he tearing up? “But soon,” he comforted, brushing back a few locks of hair that hadn’t actually fallen into Crowley’s face. “We can do that soon, once you’re better, of course.” _And once I figure out just what it is from which you_ need_ to get better._

“I’m better,” Crowley said. “Never _been_.”

Aziraphale frowned in confusion. “What?”

“What?” Yellow eyes blinked, fixed intently on Aziraphale.

“You said you’ve ‘never been.’ Never been _what?_”

“Never been lots of things,” Crowley said, and although he was picking up his train of thought once more, Aziraphale had the distinct feeling that it was heading out on an entirely different track. He’d taken hold of Aziraphale’s hand now and was kissing his knuckles. Aziraphale has a very hard time focusing on anything else. “Never been a … a whale, never been a witch, never been an angel --”

“That’s not true,” Aziraphale pointed out gently. The hush of his voice distantly surprised him. “You’ve been an angel.”

“Never been a demon, then,” Crowley grumbled, frowning into the blankets. 

Aziraphale took his hand back and let the point rest.

He had a thought. “Have you been drinking?” he asked, sniffing the air. He couldn’t smell anything, nothing but the soft lilac conditioner that Crowley used, but that didn’t necessarily mean that the demon was _sober_.

Crowley’s eyes went wide. “No. Want to?” He had a hand poised, as though on the brink of summoning a bottle.

_Absolutely not._ Aziraphale decided to ignore the question.

“Dear,” he began, mustering all the patience at his disposal. He found his reserves to be running unnaturally dry. “You called me in here and told me that I was… well, you commented on my appearance --”

“Pretty,” Crowley interrupted.

“--Yes, pretty, very well.” He sighed. “Did you _need_ anything?”

Crowley seemed to think very hard about this. Aziraphale tensed with each passing moment. He could practically _feel_ the grandfather clock ticking all the way from the den.

“Do I… need…” He trailed off until he was simply staring at the angel. Aziraphale was struck with the distinct fear that this silent staring would continue indefinitely as he remembered that Crowley didn’t actually need to blink.

“Yes, yes, or _want_ anything. What would make you feel better, my love?”

“Soup,” Crowley said brightly.

Aziraphale blinked in disbelief. “Soup?”

Crowley grinned dreamily. “Yeah, soup. Love the stuff. From the… the place we go, with the people.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “From the restaurant in town?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. You’re smart,” he added, as though related. “Always smart, you.”

“You want… What kind of soup would you _like,_ my dear?” He was trying very hard to keep Crowley focused. It seemed like he had to address him directly every few moments or he would get this dazed look and stare at some random part of Aziraphale without blinking. It was charming and off putting in equal parts.

“M’ favorite,” he said, as though that would help.

“Crowley, I have never seen you eat soup a day in your life.”

Crowley giggled -- _giggled_ \-- and Aziraphale wondered whether he’d perhaps fallen asleep, and this was all really a _dream_ like Crowley had once mentioned.

“What?”

“A day. Like I’d eat soup at night. Jus’ -- imagine, at night, and -- eating soup.”

Aziraphale put a hand to his face for the briefest of moments. _Deep breath, there’s a chap,_ he told himself, before opening his eyes again. He reached down and took Crowley’s hand in his, patting it gently. Dear, even his _hands_ had that bubbly wall socket quality about them.

“Alright. I’ll go grab some soup for you then, how’s that?”

“Thanksss, angel,” Crowley said, eyes already drifting shut. In another moment he was asleep.

Aziraphale walked out of the house in a daze. _Thanks._ Crowley had actually _thanked_ him, Aziraphale thought, slipping into the Bentley and turning it on with a snap. In all their years of knowing each other, it had been _Should I think you?_ this and _Better not_ that. He could hardly recall a time Crowley had actually _thanked_ him, he reflected as he took a right from the driveway onto a dirt road, heading towards Sudfield. Always danced around the word. Things were different now, weren’t they?

It was that moment that he realized something very different indeed. He was driving the Bentley. And he was _speeding._

**\------**

_Footnotes_

1 If there were to be a story told about this scarf and ring, it would probably be approximately thirteen thousand words long, and it would probably be titled _The One Where Crowley Knits_. It would also likely be in this same series.  
But, if you’d rather simply get on with _this_ story, it’s simply important that you know Aziraphale and Crowley proposed to each other while making about as much of a cock up out of it as you’d expect. Also, some metaphysical shenanigans happened and Crowley nearly froze to discorporation. But it really wasn’t as dramatic as all that, and he’s quite safe and happy at the moment, as will soon be shown. [return to text]

2 And if they had taken a few liberties to stretch out it’s space in ways that would make any realtor jealously confused, well, that was just between them.[return to text]


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter where Crowley wants soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the rating from G to T because of swearing. I don't know, just being safe, I suppose? 
> 
> So when I started posting this, I had nearly all of it written (just needed an ending that felt satisfying) and was just going to edit and upload. I changed quite a bit in these first two chapters, though, and I'm wondering if the subsequent chapters will require more revising than I previously thought.
> 
> All this to say, I'm going to try and get another chapter up next week (Monday or Tuesday, probably), but that may change.
> 
> There's some swearing, a bit of a nightmare (not graphic, I don't think), some angst, and also some fluff.

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale set the takeaway bags on the kitchen counter, calling over his shoulder[1]. “There’s something odd going on, and I think we ought to talk about it.” He rummaged through the cupboards for bowls and proper silverware, rambling to the plates as he tried to remember where they’d put the bowls. 

“I suspect we may be a bit jeddarty-jiddarty.” He frowned, holding two bowls between his hands. Was that even the right way to use that phrase? It had been quite a while since he’d spent any amount of time up in Cheshire, and he couldn’t quite recall how it was used.

“Say, Crowley?” he asked, turning. “Do you -- oh!” 

Aziraphale was suddenly face to face with a demon in black silk pyjamas.

Crowley rubbed his eyes blearily and leaned against the kitchen table. His cheeks were tinged pink with sleep, his hair in utter disarray, a small amount of dried drool on his chin. As a creature who had both started his life as a guardian and who had fallen in love with this particular demon, Aziraphale felt the strong urge to simply wrap his fiance back up in the blankets and tuck him snuggly into bed.

Instead, he set the bowls down on the kitchen counter and stepped towards Crowley. He took gentle hold of his arms -- there, again, the jolt of warmth. Of course, he was surprised he’d mistook it before -- and smiled. “Crowley, dear, how are you feeling?”

“M’okay. Feel kinda fuzzy, kinda warm,” he muttered, leaning forward until his head rested on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Missed you.”

Crowley’s voice rumbled between them. Aziraphale felt a touch guilty, but he tugged Crowley to him all the same. “Ah, there, there,” he soothed, rubbing Crowley’s back and receiving a pleased hum in response. “I’m back now, no need to worry.” Perhaps this conversation could wait for a bit, then.

Aziraphale gestured to the bag set on the table. “Would you like to eat?”

He served them both some chicken soup. It was a bit basic, maybe, but a good family recipe like this one always had such copious amounts of love infused in it. Before he’d even sat down to eat, Crowley had near unhinged his jaw and slurped down his whole bowl. It was equal parts impressive and affronting. Aziraphale stared, jaw tight in surprise, as the demon licked the last bits from the bowl.

Crowley glanced up then, having the decency to at least look a bit guilty. “Sssorry,” he muttered. “Should have waited.”

Aziraphale shook his head numbly. “No, no, it’s alright. I’m just shocked that you actually _ate_ it all.” And so _quickly._

Crowley looked down at his empty bowl, then back up. “Can I have more?”

Two full takeaway containers of soup later, Crowley leaned back in his chair. He seemed satiated for the moment, at least. Aziraphale took the bowls to the sink and stood there[2], worrying his hands together and thinking. He glanced over his shoulder at Crowley, eyes shut in the early evening light, breathing lightly. He seemed nearly asleep again.

Aziraphale hadn’t had a single bite of soup, despite the fact that it was _his_ favorite. He didn’t mind too much, he supposed, other than the principle of it. He found he didn’t have much of an appetite anyway.

He rubbed his neck and sighed. Watching Crowley drowsing made _him_ feel drowsy. Aziraphale slept more these days than he did before living with Crowley, but that was really only when Crowley wanted to take a nap, or when Aziraphale wanted to be close and just sort of… dozed off into the warmth. He never slept for sleeping’s sake when there were so many better things to do.

Well, Crowley seemed fine. If he didn’t want a sore neck, he should sleep in a bed and not pass out at the table after stealing all of Aziraphale’s soup. _Might teach him a lesson,_ Aziraphale thought stiffly. He headed into the den to do some light reading.

With evening encroaching and the curtains in the den shut, it was extremely cozy. Aziraphale settled at his desk, opening his carefully marked _The Once and Future King_ and slipping right back into the story.

Only he didn’t. About half a page down, he shifted in his seat. After two pages he’d thrown his right ankle over his left knee. Four pages and he was slouching over the table, hand running up and down his jaw in an effort to calm whatever was making him feel so damn _itchy_.

He huffed, setting the book down and pushing back against the chair. It creaked and groaned in protest. The blasted thing didn’t have _nearly_ enough give. He shook it a few times, nearly growling with frustration, before giving up the ghost entirely.

“Fine!” he hissed, pushing out of the chair and throwing his hands into the air. “If you insist on being contrary, I’ll just leave!” He stalked over to the couch, dropping unceremoniously onto it as though making a point to his reading chair.

And, _oh._ In an instant, his back and legs relaxed into the cushions like a perfect bite of mousse cradled by a spoon. This was… comfortable. _Quite_ comfortable, in fact. The irritation he felt towards that _ungrateful_ chair evaporated instantly.

The grandfather clock against the wall ticked once, twice, thrice, and on and on. Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered just so slightly. His foot wiggled with the rhythm. He’d forgotten to take off his shoes before kicking his feet up on the couch, he found. He also found that he didn’t particularly care.

Before long, everything got a bit fuzzy. Not like when he napped with Crowley, all wrapped up in his warmth. No, it was more like… his tension was slowly slipping away. Like… it was all slipping, a bit. Nothing serious. Tickety-boo…

He sighed, head lolling into the cushions. He could see why Crowley liked this.

Crowley.

_Still a demon, then?_

He turned sharply, eyes half hidden behind those tiny black frames.

_What else am I gonna be?_

An image of black wings, spread wide. Sparkling beneath the sun. Brilliant.

Or, no. It was the night sky. Stars drifted across the dark expanse. Time roared by, while he stood locked in place, watching. Stories held in those stars, falling to Earth in all their glory.

No, not stars. Stars don’t fall next to you. Stars don’t scream.

_Oh. That’s _me_ screaming._

Maybe _he_ was a star. He certainly felt like he was on fire. He twisted, felt a sharp jolt of pain in his back as his wings were jostled mercilessly by the wind. 

Not a star, then.

Air whipped past him, cutting his cheeks. His hair tangled in a mess behind him, yanking his scalp. He could see something dark, something deep, rushing at him from below. 

It wanted him. It would have him.

The pain was _nothing_ compared to whatever was happening in his chest. Ripping, tearing, something gnawing its way out. Escaping him. Abandoning him.

He gasped for breath but found no relief. His hands scrabbled at his chest, then at the air, searching for anything, anything, to slow his descent. There was nothing.

_Help,_ he tried to call, but he couldn’t. He tried to swallow. Throat thick with fear, he could only choke.

_Please, stop,_ but there was no answer.

His vision blurred with tears -- from wind, from pain, from the tearing feeling in his chest, he didn’t know. He didn’t know anything except he’d been cast out, he had been abandoned, he wasn’t good enough, he wasn’t _anything,_ and he would never --

Aziraphale didn’t realize he’d drifted off to sleep until he heard a heavy _thump_.

“Oh, blesss it!” Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale jolted up on the couch, gasping. He ran a trembling hand over his slick face -- sweat? tears? -- before looking properly at the scene.

Crowley was in the doorway to the den, hands outstretched, very apparently having just knocked into the small table. The lamp he’d been trying to turn on lay on the floor, the dislodged shade still rolling to a stop.

“Crowley?” was all Aziraphale could think to say. His mind was still fuzzy from sleep. Flickers of images rose and fell quickly, but he couldn’t remember what, exactly, they were from. All he knew was that he had a tight knot in his chest that threatened to snap his very core.

“Just a sec, angel, I’ll get the lights.” Crowley crouched, feeling the carpet blindly. “Why’s it so bloody _dark_ in here?” His hands found the lamp. “Aha!”

Before Aziraphale could comment that it _wasn’t_ very dark, and that Crowley was likely just a bit daft, the demon flicked on the light.

“Fuck!” Aziraphale hissed, shutting his eyes and snapping a hand over his face as a blinding pain took him. It passed in a moment, helped by the hands rubbing small, warm circles on his back.

“Woah, angel, you alright? You look a mess.”

Aziraphale huffed, peeling his eyes cautiously open and glancing at the demon perched beside him on the couch. _”I_ look a mess?” he snapped, voice coming out much more whiny than he liked. “You eat all of my soup and then… then take a nap and you’re all fine and dandy again.” He got the distinct feeling that he was pouting, so he turned away and glared daggers at the kitchen instead. “Well, at least _I’m_ not the one who fell asleep upright at the table. I didn’t know you were capable of _sitting_ in the chair like a normal person, let alone _sleep_ there.”

“Hmmm,” and dammit if Crowley didn’t sound a bit _amused_. “Well, _you_ seem to be getting a bit homey in my _usual_ spot.”

Aziraphale’s ears burned. He glared down at his hands, still refusing to make eye contact with Crowley. That knot in his chest wasn’t dying down. “I… I’ll have you know that it was _I_ who paid for this couch, Crowley, which hardly makes it yours.”

“Bollocks,” Crowley said, “You miracled that money up. And possession is five eighths of the law, anyways.” [3]

“Honestly,” Aziraphale said, shooting Crowley a look. The demon’s hand, which had previously been rubbing little circles into the angel’s back, stilled.

Crowley hummed. “Er, hey, angel, no need to worry or anything, but, erm… I just, the thing is -- that’s to say, eck--”

Aziraphale glared, fingers pressed to his still throbbing temples. “As much as I love charades, I really haven’t the energy for this, Crowley.”

“Erk. Just, have you looked in the mirror lately?”

“I’m _aware_ that I look a mess,” Aziraphale hissed, “There’s no need to rub it in any further.” He shifted around Crowley on the couch, standing up. He didn’t want to deal with this right now. He _couldn’t_. “I’ll go comb my hair, if that will _appease_ you.”

Crowley caught his sleeve, then, and where his fingers brushed Aziraphale’s wrist, he felt a burst of warmth. _Love_. Aziraphale stilled. He felt a pang of guilt, the knot in his chest loosening ever so slightly as he took a deep breath.

He wasn’t angry, not really. Just embarrassed, and a bit fuzzy at the moment. He sighed, then sat back down.

“Sorry, dear,” he muttered, slouching ever so slightly against the demon. “I shouldn’t snap at you. You’re still getting well.”

“Yeah, uh, I’ve had worse, no biggie,” he said, as though Aziraphale would have any idea what a _biggie_ was or why it was a bad thing. “But really, angel, have you seen your eyes recently?”

Aziraphale blinked, then rushed to the bathroom.

There wasn’t much of a hallway, but Crowley managed to stumble through it in the dark -- the _dark_, Aziraphale realized -- which gave the angel a moment alone in the mirror.

It was… well. It was a surprise, certainly. It was not his usual aesthetic, to be sure. He touched his cheek, then laughed a little, a nervous sort of bubbling sound.

His eyes… well. They were _serpentine_. That was the word, wasn’t it, for when your previously humanish eyes suddenly got all slitty. Still blue, he thought, but with unmistakably oblong pupils. Not that this happened to people generally, but if it did, that was what it would be called.

He thought he looked rather… well. He looked a bit _cool_, didn’t he? It didn’t quite fit, but he found he rather liked it. Kind of like when he slipped on a pair of Crowley’s glasses when the demon wasn’t looking and did finger guns at himself in the mirror.

He noticed Crowley in the mirror, hovering in the doorway with an anxious expression.

“Oh,” was all Aziraphale said, turning to face him in the flesh. He frowned, lifting a hand to the demon’s face and cupping it gently, soaking up that warmth that buzzed underneath his palm at the point of contact. 

Those golden eyes searched his face. Looking for… for what? Judgement? He could taste it on his tongue. _Fear_. Of what, Aziraphale had no idea. He prayed that it wasn’t him.

He swallowed. “Dear,” he said, voice feeling very small under the bright bathroom light. “Yours, too.”

“Hmm?” Crowley glanced past him, walking up to the mirror slowly, long fingers brushing against his cheek. Aziraphale watched him carefully as he took in the sight. Oh, he did feel rather foolish now. Of course Crowley’s pupils didn’t just _seem_ nearly round. They _were_ nearly round.

“Huh.” Crowley tilted his head to the side slightly. Aziraphale noted with relief that his snake tattoo (actual snake? Aziraphale was unclear on the specifics) was still at home below his ear.

“Huh,” Aziraphale agreed, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“So,” said Crowley slowly, still staring at his reflection. His tongue slipped out briefly -- still forked. Aziraphale instinctively pressed his against the roof of his mouth -- still blunt. “Seems there was a bit of a… mixup.”

“A mixup, yes,” Aziraphale echoed. This explained the look on Dahlia’s face when he ordered their soup, and her question. _Ooh, are you trying out contacts?_ to which Aziraphale replied, with a frown, _No, dear, my eyesight is perfectly fine._[4]

At this point, he noticed Crowley fixing him with an intense, slightly unfocused look -- and rather unsettling with those nearly human eyes. Aziraphale shifted from foot to foot. “Ah…”

“I see the problem,” Crowley said finally. “Think I left some… strands out of place. With our corporations and. Er. Such.”

“Strands?” Aziraphale echoed, trying very hard not to imagine his soul as bit of celery stuck between somebody’s teeth.

“Oh, you know. The stuff we’re made out of. No biggie.” _Tickety-boo._ “When I tried that… thing, the other day, looks like I didn’t put them all back in the right place.

_No biggie. Righto._

“Here,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale could feel the air crackling slightly with energy as Crowley reached out. “Let me just--”

Without thinking, Aziraphale grabbed his buzzing hands. Crowley quirked an eyebrow.

“Er, perhaps we should wait, dear,” he hurried. “You’re still weak. I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

Crowley hesitated, eyes searching -- at least Aziraphale thought they were searching. He couldn’t quite tell. “I’m fine, angel. Tip top after that soup. It’s not a problem.”

Aziraphale smiled thinly. “No, I know it’s not. Just… for my piece of mind, could we… wait? Just a day or two.” He squeezed Crowley’s hands. “That’s no time at all, is it?”

Crowley’s eyebrows seemed to be giving up the southern front, retreating far up his forehead. Aziraphale held his gaze, feeling a bit silly about the game he was playing but hoping Crowley would just go along with it. Those golden eyes blinked once, twice, and then Crowley shrugged.

“Suits me. If you wanna keep playing nurse, I’m not gonna complain.”

Aziraphale let out a small puff of a sigh, then smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered, then pressed a little kiss on Crowley’s cheek.

There, that sizzle of warmth again, and the distinct lack thereof when he pulled back.

Aziraphale tucked Crowley back into bed -- _ “You’re lucky I’m in such a good mood, angel, or I’d never let you coddle me like this. I’m a force of nature,”_ \-- and made himself a cup of tea. He sat at the kitchen table, letting the warmth seep into his hands and thinking.

Why had he wanted to wait? The eyes were 'cool', he thought, but that wasn’t the reason. It’s likely what he might tell Crowley if he asked, but… it wasn’t that.

Aziraphale had felt so tetchy recently, and he realized now that it was likely from feeling so disconnected from Crowley’s love. Usually he could sense it from clear across the house, even feel little traces of it from miles away if he focused. Right now, though, he seemed to require physical touch to really get a sense of it.

Had Crowley been living like that for years? Ever since Aziraphale had met him, possibly? That idea was heartbreaking, but Aziraphale guessed that Crowley would rather bathe in holy water himself than have an honest discussion about it.

The only thing to be done, then, was to let Crowley have a taste of that love that he’d been missing.

Aziraphale’s leg bounced rapidly under the table, and he took a pointed sip of his tea. He’d do it for as long as he could. For Crowley.

**\------**

_Footnotes_

1 He’d gone ahead and gotten the soup, anyways. After all, he was already on his way, and it wasn’t as though it was the soup’s fault that Aziraphale could suddenly drive.[return to text]

2 They cleaned themselves as soon as Aziraphale set them down, of course, because he assumed that they would.[return to text]

3 It wasn’t. Crowley had gotten a law degree at some point or another over the years, but he hadn’t really studied or even gone to class that well. He had really only done it for the chance to be an awful team member and to cause all the low-grade (or high grade) stress that he possibly could. He’d also convinced the Dean that he was actually a fantastic student who deserved the degree because he wanted whatever title Barristers or Solicitors or whatever got. Upon finishing his law degree, though, he realized he’d need to do even _more_ school and then actually show up to training in the real world, and he wouldn’t even get a title out of it. Instead of all that hullabaloo, he decided to use his degree as a very nice coaster, and just tell the barista at the coffee shop that his name was Doctor Crowley until she finally started writing it down on his cup[3.1].[return to text]

3.1 “Doctor Who?” she’d asked the first half dozen times, until she got tired of Crowley simply responding, "Doctor Crowley. You don't recognize me by now?"[return to text]

4 This also meant that he hadn’t once looked in any of the mirrors while driving the Bentley, but since he seemed to have inherited his driving sense from a certain speed demon, this wasn’t all that surprising. [return to text]


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I'm not entirely thrilled with how this story has been turning out? I think I'm mostly being hard on myself, though, so I figured I'd share it anyways. One thing I do like is I think I have some pretty descriptive scenes.
> 
> Anyways, if you feel like leaving a comment, let me know what you think!
> 
> One more chapter left. It'll hopefully be up in about a week, but I haven't 100% finished it, and I have writing for class to do and other University/Adult things to do, so... we'll see.

Crowley drifted off to sleep peacefully that night.

Aziraphale insisted that he do so, hurrying him off to bed and wrapping him all up in blankets. Crowley let him because he felt particularly inclined toward indulging the angel at the present moment. Still, he was disappointed when all efforts to encourage Aziraphale to join him failed.

“Ah, my dear,” he’d soothed. “You need your rest, and I’ve some reading that needs catching up on.” He’d brushed back Crowley’s hair then and kissed him softly on the forehead. Then he fixed him with a loving look -- which, considering the current state of his eyes, was even more entrancing than usual -- and left the demon alone in the dark.

Crowley had slipped under. He’d slept, alone, without a single nightmare. And finally, he woke up.

It was still _dark_.

Crowley hadn’t failed to notice that his night vision was all but out of commission at the moment. Must have been from the… well, he still didn’t know what to call it. It had been sort of mind meld-y, hadn’t it? That weaving together of their auras. Very pleasant, he reflected with a hum, but odd.

He couldn’t remember how they’d ended it, though. Only remembered snippets of rumbling road from the passenger seat of the Bentley, then Aziraphale tucking him into bed, and then… well. It wasn’t an event, really. More of a feeling.

He remembered feeling very warm and fuzzy. At first he’d thought it was simply Azirpahale’s love for him. He’d gotten quite sensitive to it over the years, and it got extra glowy from time to time. When Crowley fixed up a stain on the angel’s clothes, for example, or found them a particularly charming new restaurant, or when Aziraphale caught him doing a nice little miracle for a human just because. 

But the feeling didn’t fade, not with time, hardly with distance. Even now, when the angel was out of the room, it was nearly overwhelming. He felt like he had an itch, but the itch was actually a warm feeling deep in his chest and belly and the only way to itch it was to say lovely things and stare, enraptured, at something. Particularly, one domestic angel.

_Maybe it’s just a fever,_ he thought, but that was ridiculous. He was a demon. He didn’t _get_ fevers.

What, then, was this feeling? He nearly buzzed with… whatever it was.

Right. He felt like he was going to burn a hole in the sheets if he sat here a moment longer, so up he got. He slipped his dressing gown on over his pyjamas -- it _was_ rather chilly -- and tied it tight.

After stubbing his toe on the doorframe and hissing loudly, he decided that he did _not_ appreciate being unable to see in the dark. He’d have to bring this up with Aziraphale. They might have to end this little… experiment, or whatever it was, before too long. He felt a bit guilty because he was the one who’d gotten them into this mess in the first place, and Aziraphale seemed interested now, and who was he to keep his angel from something he wanted?

He was a blind Serpent with a stubbed toe, that was what. Feeling along the wall -- had he really never memorized where the light switches were? -- Crowley made his way through the house in search of Aziraphale.

He probed at that fuzzy feeling in the center of his chest like a sore tooth. What _was_ it? It wasn’t unpleasant, really, but it put him a bit on edge. Or rather, it took him a bit _off_ edge, which really put him on edge. It wasn’t good to get too relaxed. Things snuck up on you when you got too relaxed.

In the kitchen, through the lace curtains above the sink, Crowley caught a glimpse of the angel. He was standing in the garden, it seemed, but from this angle in the dark he couldn’t make out much more.

Crowley walked to the front door and slipped it open quietly. Aziraphale didn’t notice. Crowley leaned against the doorframe, hands burrowed in the pockets of his dressing gown against the cold, and watched.

Aziraphale was still in his day clothes, a soft jumper of some light color over a collared shirt, it seemed. Crowley couldn’t tell whether he had a bow tie on except for the fact that it was Aziraphale, so of course he had on a bow tie. He had on a scarf, the scarf _Crowley_ had knit, he realized smugly. It did look rather fetching on the angel. That was worth it, then, even if the demon had had to do away with a bit of his dignity and a large amount of his sanity in learning the damn pattern.

Definitely worth it, especially considering the picture Aziraphale made right now.

Aziraphale held onto the scarf with one hand, tugging it up close to his mouth. His whole head was tilted upwards. The bright moon caught on his skin and blond curls. Through the lens of Crowley’s currently shoddy night vision, Aziraphale’s eyes looked like silver disks turned skyward. Aziraphale’s spare hand reached up, fingers spread slightly, as though trying to grasp the heavens. He was the picture of beauty, a being of grace and awe and love, taking gentle steps through the garden.

Crowley looked up himself, squinting. For the first time since moving out of London, he had a hard time making out the night sky.

_Huh._ No wonder Aziraphale was so entranced. He was borrowing Crowley’s eyes.

What he _could_ see, though, was infinitely closer and more complicated. In lieu of the stars, Crowley peered at Aziraphale’s aura. A bit rude, maybe, but he was a demon. He was meant to be rude.

It was a bit dulled at the moment. He knew Aziraphale kept it in check around Crowley. For however _good_ the angel claimed the demon was, he still knew that divine contact could be a bit… well. _Sizzly_ was a near word for it.

But Crowley could still make out bits and pieces of it. Mostly it seemed like a hum of color, a smudge of heat. Hard to explain, really, but it felt fairly golden. Holy and all that, but also _good_, like a warm cup of tea.

A warm, dangerous, bastard cup of tea. Also prim. And a terrible dresser. And adorable. Not that Crowley would call it that. He would _think_ that, but he wouldn’t say it.

Right now, that golden haze had a bit of a… well. A bit of a dark smudge to it. It wasn’t black, exactly. More like a deep, shimmering navy blue. Maybe a touch of red as well. It didn’t exactly seem _settled_, and Crowley knew it didn’t belong there. Those were _his_ strands. That was the best word for it, at least.

But still, the angel was _perfect_. Leave it to Aziraphale to make demonic essence downright divine.

Crowley leaned there, taking in as much of his angel as he could. That fuzzy feeling in his chest grew. Once he couldn’t feel his hands anymore from the chill, he called out.

“Enjoying the view?”

Aziraphale snapped his head around, then broke into a grin. “_Crow_ley.” How he filled one word with so much glowing affection, he’d no idea. It was, frankly, a bit overwhelming -- Crowley’s chest felt so full with warm bubbles he thought he might just pop.

He shifted his feet, ducking his head slightly. “Er, yeah. S’just me, not the Queen or anything.”

He could _taste_ the angel’s love from all the way over here. Right now it tasted like creme brulee. Crowley realized he had a craving for creme brulee for the first time in his life.

“Care to join me?” Aziraphale said.

“Mmph,” Crowley answered. He popped inside briefly, slipping on his shoes and a dark jacket, and shuffled through the garden to meet the angel.

Aziraphale tucked himself under the demon’s arm without preamble when he approached. He slipped an arm around Crowley’s back, leaning into him. “You did a marvelous job, darling.”

The fuzzy feeling grew again. _Love._ It was _distracting_.

“I… hng… Whaddya mean?”

He could feel just how _fond_ Aziraphale was of him. He’d thought he’d been able to sense love before, but bloody Hell, this was…

“The stars, dear. I’ve no idea how you managed. They’re _beautiful_.”

“Mph. Just a job, really. S’what I was made to do.” Then, without his permission, his voice added: “And they’re nowhere near as beautiful as you are, dove.”

Now Aziraphale turned to look at _him_, and blast the dark because he couldn’t make out the blue of his eyes at all. He couldn’t read whatever emotion they held, but he could feel it. _Addicting._ He wanted to chase it.

“If I’d known you’d be under my arm one day, staring up in my garden, I’d have made sure they were absolutely perfect for you.” And boy that felt hokey to say, but there was another burst of affection from the angel, tickling its way down Crowley’s spine like laughter.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said with a smile in his voice. “They _are_ perfect.”

“Then maybe we were always meant to be, eh?”

The fondness -- the singular fondness and affection -- rolled off Aziraphale in waves. It was overwhelming. It was _indecent._ Crowley just barely saved his entire reputation and bit back a giggle.

Aziraphale frowned, tightening the arm around Crowley’s waist. “You’re shivering,” he said, and led them back inside. Crowley couldn’t complain, not as long as his angel kept an arm around him.

He also didn’t complain when the angel sat him at the kithen table and slipped a steaming cup of tea into his hands. They warmed slowly. He breathed in the aroma -- _licorice_ \-- and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he noticed Aziraphale: hovering across the table from him, one hand on the back of the chair, snake eyes staring intensely.

He wasn’t blinking. Crowley realized he’d been smiling. He dropped it quickly.

“Er…” He set down the cup. “You alright, angel?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, tilting his head, still unblinking. “I should ask you the same thing, dear.”

Crowley shrugged. “Fine as always. How long did I sleep?”

“Two days,” Aziraphale said. Crowley was impressed. That was amazingly short. “You’re sure you’re fine?” There was a tension in his voice that Crowley couldn’t quite place.

Crowley frowned. “Yeah, I’m great. Never slept better. No dreams, no nothing. Only I’m blind as a… well, I dunno. What can’t see in the dark?” Most things, maybe? He scratched the side of his nose in thought.

“Yes, exactly,” Aziraphale said abruptly. The chair squeaked against the floor when he pulled it back and sat. “Your _dreams_, Crowley. They’re _awful_.”

Ah. _Here_ was a conversation Crowley didn’t want to have. He looked away. It was dark outside. Nothing to distract him. For once he missed his eyes.

“Well, you know.” He shrugged. “Demon.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Yes, yes. But _I_ had one of them, dear. Just the other day. And I think… well, I’m fairly certain that I can’t feel Her love, Crowley. You know.” And he pointed a finger up, as though there was any other ‘Her’ whose love mattered.

Time froze. Or rather, Crowley froze. The grandfather clock ticked away in some dark, hidden corner of the home. The cup in his hands was too hot, but Crowley couldn’t put it down. It cracked down the middle, tea pouring all over the table.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale chided.

_No. No, absolutely not. This wasn’t happening._

“Alright, game’s over.” Crowley tried to look into the angel’s aura. Dammit, he was holding it tight. “Let me fix it.”

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice was painfully soft.

“No, come on. _Show me_ it, angel, let’s go back.”

“Crowley!” He blinked. Aziraphale had trapped both of his hands against the table, palms in a puddle of tea. He hadn’t even realized he’d been reaching out.

“Darling, it’s alright,” Aziraphale soothed. _He didn’t deserve soothing._ “I just want to talk to you about something.”

“Ngh. Nothing to talk about,” he muttered. He couldn’t meet his angel’s eyes. Not that they were angelic at the moment. _That’s my fault._

“Crowley.” And he had to look up.

Aziraphale’s face was soft, even with his eyes in their current state. His soft skin wrinkled with a smile that barely ghosted his lips. He slipped their hands together, tracing small circles on the back of Crowley’s hands.

“Darling, can can you feel it? Love?”

Crowley pursed his lips. “Yeah. Already told you I could. But it’s been a bit… well.” He thought about some of the things he’d said to the angel recently that made him want to sink six feet under from embarrassment and never come back. Not that they weren’t true, which only made it worse. “It’s been a bit more… _overwhelming_ recently.”

“Yes, that makes sense,” Aziraphale said softly, sadly. “But I suppose… what about _Her_ love, dear? Can you feel that as well?”

Crowley squirmed uncomfortably, but Aziraphale’s warm hands grounded him. “Well… I’m not sure, really. Can’t exactly remember what that felt like.”

Aziraphale squeezed his hands tightly, almost painfully, like the angel was seeking purchase. There was definitely a pang of sadness in his voice now. “I can describe it, if you’d like.” When Crowley didn’t protest, he continued.

“There’s a sort of warmth to it, like with any love.” ‘Course. That was basic. “And a sort of consistency to it, as well. It isn’t dependent on anything that you do, or don’t do. It never wavers. It’s always just _there._” He paused, his lips a tight line.

Crowley’s throat clicked dryly as he swallowed. “Except for now.”

Aziraphale licked his lips. “Yes, well, I can feel _your_ love for me.”

Crowley could smell a lie. He quirked an eyebrow.

Aziraphale glanced away. “Well. When we’re touching, at least. It has been a bit harder, these past few days.”

Something was stuck in Crowley’s throat, something the size of a peach pit and far more bitter.

“At first I’d thought that you were perhaps upset with me,” Aziraphale continued, “as I did nearly freeze you to discorporation.” Before Crowley could protest, Aziraphale pushed on. “But of course, you were so _very_ sweet to me, so I knew that wasn’t the case.”

Crowley set him with a level gaze, calming down just a bit. There must be a _point_ to all this babbling, mustn’t there?

Aziraphale nodded slightly to himself. “Yes. Well, what I want to know, before we do anything else, is whether you can feel Her love. Right now.”

Something sharp and hot poked Crowley right through the chest. _Panic._

“I’m not gonna--”

“Please,” Aziraphale said. “Please, just try. I promise, we can go back afterwards if you’d like, but I just…” He pulled his hands away, apparently for the singular purpose of wringing them together. “This is important to me.” And Aziraphale sounded so sincere, so desperate, that Crowley couldn’t possibly refuse him.

Crowley sighed, considered this. He wasn’t really interested in feeling Her love again, if he was honest. He’d grown used to life without it, and it hardly even bothered him anymore. If anything, he thought he mught just feel bitter if all it took for Her to love him again was a little flub-up with a divine aura.

But Aziraphale was asking him to do this, so he was obviously going to do it.

Crowley crossed his arms over his chest, closed his eyes, and did something he’d been avoiding for millenia.

_Er. Hullo,_ he thought to his feelings. They ignored him. They didn’t often talk to each other, and they didn’t seem to want to start now. The only thing he could _really_ feel was how much he loved Aziraphale, and how much the bastard loved him. It was rather interfering with his results.

“Think I need a bit of space to reflect, angel,” he said. Noticing the crestfallen look on Aziraphale’s face, he added, “As in physical space. All I’m picking up right now is mushy stuff about _you_.”

Well, Aziraphale looked almost smug at that. “Ah,” he said, standing up and tugging patting down the front of his meticulously clean jumper. _Preening._ “Well. I suppose I’ll go sit in the den.”

Crowley shook his head. “Not far enough. I can feel how mushy you are from anywhere in the house. I’ll take the Bentley and--”

At this, Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “No, no, let _me_,” he rushed. He looked positively crazed, wide eyed and moving in what Crowley could only call a _scramble_ towards the door.

Crowley craned his neck, staring. “Wut? _You?_ Can you even drive?” He did vaguely remember Aziraphale driving them back from the cliffs the other night, but Crowley hadn’t exactly been in any position to do so. He’d thought that was more of a miracle, or perhaps a stoic obligation on the angel’s part. Never had he imagined Aziraphale would _want_ to drive the Bentley.

“Yes, yes,” Aziraphale huffed, toeing on his shoes and bending their backs just a bit in his hurry. “Now don’t tease, dear,” he chided. “It's not a virtuous quality, you know.”

_“Virtuous,”_ Crowley scoffed, but Aziraphale had already slipped the door open, blew Crowley a little kiss, and slipped away into the night.

“Hold on!” Crowley called, following after a touch too slow. “You need the keys, at least!”

Aziraphale, apparently, did _not_ need the keys. By the time Crowley reached the doorway, the Bentley was already roaring to life. It’s headlights flashed through the dark and some horrible classical music with entirely too many strings was blasting through its speakers. Before he knew it, the two loves of his life had torn down the hill and into the night.

_Traitorous bastards,_ he thought, all together too fondly.

And then he was alone.

Well, not entirely. He could still sense Aziraphale, a warm speck nestled on the edge of his chest, a gentle force that the compass of Crowley’s heart always pointed towards. His north.

Crowley paced the kitchen, sipping his tea until it chilled, then warming it again. He got the sense that Aziraphale made it to Sudfield, amazingly in one piece, and then -- a bit more slowly -- through town, and then…

He faded all but entirely. Just the lightest prickle, a pinpoint of light in Crowley’s dark soul that said _Here, dear,_ in a very posh accent.

Crowley turned on all the lights in the house. Then he sat in the den, in Aziraphale’s floral armchair, and thought. Not about anything in particular, really. Chewed his cheek. Tried to see if he could notice the Feeling Aziraphale had asked about.

The grandfather clock chimed. Four in the morning.

Crowley walked around the den, running a hand over the bookshelves, looking past them at the wallpaper. It straddled the border between tacky and charming: cream background with green spirals of leaves. A bit brighter than Crowley’s usual aesthetic, but he could appreciate the garden motif.

It didn’t make much of a difference in the end. There wasn’t much breathing room for the wallpaper with all the dark wood shelves. Aziraphale prefered it this way; Crowley did, too, even if he wouldn’t say it.

He paused before the fireplace, which the bookshelves gave a wide berth. Thought some more. It could mean lots of things, fire. It could mean destruction, endings, pain. It could mean singed books, or toasted hazelnuts. It could mean good beginnings. Bad beginnings.

He twisted the feathered ring on his left hand. Different beginnings.

They’d brought some wood indoors from the porch when the weather really turned. They hadn’t lit any yet, but he had the feeling they would soon. Probably as soon as Crowley suggested it.

He’d let the angel to the lighting. No accidental hellfire here, thank you very much.

Crowley had finished his tea, but he didn’t feel like making any more. He felt restless. Not anxious, exactly, just full of energy. Tingly.

He slipped on his shoes, tugged on a coat and even the scarf Dahlia, the young lady in town, had knit Aziraphale. Green looked better on Crowley, anyway. Then he slipped out of their house and shut the door behind him.

The moon was still fairly full, dipping near the horizon, and the sky was clear above him. Everything was washed in a soft grey light. He shoved his hands in his pockets, watching his breath float away as puffs of cloud. Thought of fluffy blond hair.

The path crunched under his feet, frozen in the chilly morning air. Usually they drove to the Downs, but it wasn’t too long a walk. About half an hour, give or take. Wasn’t much point in counting, not with all the time in the world ahead of him.

Normally this sort of thing would irritate Crowley. Just walking, alone, in a quiet morning. He should feel exposed like this. Too open. Bored, even. Instead, he felt a mild sort of appreciation. _Odd._ He decided to let that feeling in.

Crowley took it all in as he walked. The wide fields, the slight hills rolling down back to the cottage and eventually Sudfield. Low slung fences running across the countryside like the spines of long forgotten snakes. The way the early morning breeze tickled his hair where it curled around his ears. It was… nice.

He flicked his tongue out -- still had that, at least -- and he could taste it. The dry chalkiness of the cliffs and the sting of sea salt, a scent he was beginning to relate to the idea of home.

If he was honest with himself (and more than a bit cheesy), he would say that this was always bound to be his home. The thought should have been embarrassing but instead, it brought him a bit of comfort. A slight smile.

Apparently the walk took thirty minutes, give a lot. By the time he reached a nice outlook on the Downs there was a slight burnt ochre spill of light to the east. He settled down, letting his legs hang over the side, wishing briefly that he’d changed out of his pyjama pants but letting the thought go with a gust of wind.

Below him, waves crashed against a rocky shoreline. It was quite a long way down.

“Er,” he said, voice insignificant against the morning. “Hullo.”

He wasn’t sure _who_ he was saying hello to. Maybe his feelings? Maybe Her? He wasn’t one for praying, not really, but he would be open to a chat.

A chat with God. The very idea made him burn with embarrassment.

He pushed on.

“Look, I normally. Er. Well, I let you do your thing, and you let me do mine, right? Pretty civil of you, really, so. ‘Preciate that.” As if they were equals. He chuckled nervously.

“But see, I’ve got this… friend, and. Well. You know all about him, don’t you?”

He half hoped his voice would echo dramatically into the sky as he raised his head and his voice, but it didn’t. It was swallowed down by the quiet morning and the rush of the sea.

“And he thinks that right now, for whatever reason, I should be able to feel you. And your… you know.” He shrugged “And I think that’s bullocks. Er, ridiculous, I mean. But I’ve been proven wrong before, and. Well.” He kicked his legs against the chalky stone, uselessly feigning relaxation.

“I just know that he’d be upset with me, if I didn’t try.” Whatever _try_ meant in a situation like this. “So… Prove me wrong?”

Crowley sat there quietly, waiting. Pursed his lips. Dug his fingers into the patchy grass at the edge. Felt the chill climb into his fingers, his feet, up his arms and legs. It trickled over his skin, settled in his throat. The breeze from the sea swooped up, tickling the loose hairs back from his face.

On a whim, he let his wings out. Felt a moment of relief at the stretch of it. A moment of disappointment at the color.

Still black. A bit anticlimactic. He’d wondered, vaguely, whether they would be white, or speckled, or grey. Something conventionally Pure like that. Or maybe, something different, sapphire blue or wine red or maybe something brilliant and rainbow like a macaw.

(Black was okay, though. He was secretly relieved that his aesthetic was preserved. He only hoped the angel wouldn’t be disappointed.)

Still, the breeze did feel rather nice in his feathers, and the sunrise bloomed into the sea like beautiful spilled ink. 

The sun rose slowly. He could barely feel his extremities, but it didn’t bother him much. He could still swing his feet against the cliff, so he’d be able to walk home. He could still clutch the grass between his fingers, so he’d be able to open the door to his cottage. Wrap his arms around Aziraphale, whenever he got home, made sure he realized how much Crowley desparately loved him.

He noticed a point, though, where the cold ended. Somewhere in his chest, or his heart, or maybe in his breath.

_Curious._ It could be Aziraphale, but the angel was still far away.

He closed his eyes, held his breath, and prodded the spot. It was warm. _Could it be…?_ And the moment he let himself hope, it exploded.

You might think that _exploded_ was too violent a term for what happened, but you’d be wrong. It _hurt_ in a way, all that Love suddenly flooding into his consciousness. It wrecked him with pain. Not physical, exactly, but raw nonetheless. He hadn’t felt this in so long, but it was undeniably Love of the capital sort.

His body tensed under the wave and nearly pitched forward, but a gust of wind caught his wings and pushed him flat on his back so he was staring straight up at the sky. It filled him with a warm, bubbly feeling.

Perhaps the demon felt it was unfair that he’d gone so long without feeling this, only to have it slip back into his heart innocuously. By mistake, really, because he’d muddled something up in his attempts to feel closer to Aziraphale. Because he had some little string of divinity in him for now, which apparently was all it took to be lovable again.

Perhaps he felt a flood of relief, like one feels when bobbing above choppy waters for a breath of air they didn’t realize the desperately needed.

(Perhaps he was horrified, distantly, at the inevitable drage of water that would punch the breath from his lungs again.)

Perhaps he felt nothing at all. Perhaps for the first time in a long time, he felt an utter stillness in that small part of him that always itched, always tickled the back of his throat without him knowing why.

(Perhaps there was none of that. Perhaps Crowley was powerless to do anything but stare up at the sky, watching the clouds change color as the sun rose. Perhaps every fluffy white cloud was enough to send him into a fit of giggles.)

Hypotheticals aside, religion is a very personal matter, and family issues even more so. Let’s give Crowley a bit of space, shall we?


	4. Chapter 4

There weren’t many drivers out at four in the morning on the A3. It made for a scene that was so eerie, so lonely, it was peaceful. 

Aziraphale drove for a while, windows down, chill air whipping through his hair. He wasn’t generally one for composing poetry, but right now, he felt as though he were practically sparkling.

In reality, he likely looked a mess. He confirmed his suspicions by glancing in the rear mirror -- oh, how convenient! How long had that been there? -- but it didn’t matter. Crowley wasn’t here to tease him for it. 

Crowley wasn’t there to tease him for it, and he wished that he was.

Perhaps Aziraphale’s actions require a bit of explanation.

You see, when he and Crowley had first sort-of swapped just a few days ago, he’d felt irritated. He’d felt cut off, from what, he didn’t know. When he finally came to realize what it was -- his ability to sense _love_, of all things, was dulled -- he came to a second, more horrifying realization. Crowley felt that way all the time. Crowley had felt that way for _six-thousand years._

At least, Aziraphale could only assume that he had. It wasn’t as though Crowley would tell him one way or another, was it? They didn’t talk about feelings. They understood each other, so they didn’t need to talk about it.

Aziraphale thought he understood another aspect of Crowley now: why he loved the Bentley.

When he was driving, Aziraphale felt reckless in a rather cool way. He liked the feeling of such a big thing moving because he made it, he liked the feeling of the wind rushing around him like he was freefalling, he liked the music blaring out into the still night. He liked watching the countryside flash past him. Moving at breakneck speed like this, all of the tickling anxieties he’d been feeling since the sort-of-swap faded into the background.

He still missed Crowley. Of course he missed Crowley. There was a part of him that was itching to turn right around and drive home, sit on the sofa and let Crowley settle on his lap so he could run his fingers through that short hair. 

But he didn’t. He believed that it was important for Crowley to have time alone before they swapped back, if that was the word for it. He had a suspicion that Crowley could feel… well, _Her_ love, and a further suspicion as to what that might mean if it were true. He didn’t want to get Crowley’s hopes up just to shatter them, though, so he’d decided to keep his mouth shut until he was absolutely certain.

He missed Crowley dearly with his hands at ten and two on the Bentley’s wheel, but it was a sweet sort of missing. He switched CDs, relaxing ever so slightly into Mozart’s bubbling _I Want to Break Free._ The night spread out before him, and the headlights poured onto the dark street, and the stars turned slowly above.

It was true that he couldn’t feel Crowley’s love currently, not from this distance. But losing supernatural abilities doesn’t negate other abilities. When you’re close with someone for a decent amount of time, such as all of Earth’s existence, you learn certain things about them. Things you can’t put into words, perhaps, but things nonetheless.

Aziraphale just had a sense of how long Crowley took to settle down, to reflect. There may have been some sort of ripple in reality, or it may just have been Aziraphale knowing Crowley better than he knew himself, but eventually, Aziraphale turned the car around. He started driving back to their cottage because it was time to go home. Crowley was ready.

\---

When Aziraphale got home -- and after Crowley meticulously checked the Bentley for any damage, much to Aziraphale’s inflated offense -- the two settled in the kitchen.

“I’ll make tea,” Crowley said, and busied himself with preparations.

Aziraphale watched his demon shuffle about fondly. Early dawn light played through the eastern window, catching up in his hair. He filled the kettle with water and set it to boil. He was taking it the long way, the way Aziraphale liked it, _because_ he knew Aziraphale liked it.

Aziraphale hummed. Crowley glanced over, quirked an eyebrow. _What, angel?_

“Just thinking about how you love me,” Aziraphale said. “I can see it.”

Crowley glanced away, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just tea, angel,” he said, but his tone was unbearably fond.

Aziraphale drank him in with sparkling eyes. “Of course.” 

They took their time to start the conversation. They had lots of it, and the silence was comforting because of the company that kept it. They waited for the water to boil, and they sat across from each other, and they steeped their tea. Aziraphale watched Crowley, and he saw his eyes, and he saw his sigil there by his ear, and he saw the gentle quirk of his lip, and Aziraphale knew that he was loved. He knew that he was loved, and he wanted Crowley to never go a day without knowing the same.

Finally, Crowley spoke. “I could feel it.” 

Aziraphale knew it. He grinned, and he leaned forward. “My dear, that’s fantastic!”

Crowley frowned, but didn’t back away. “Is it? I’m not so sure.” Even when he was conflicted, he was beautiful. 

“Whatever do you mean?”

Crowley sighed. He looked absolutely torn, eyes trained on Aziraphale’s hands between them on the table. “It’s just… it’s been so long since She loved me. And in the end, all it took was a thread of divinity and _poof_, it’s alright, I’m forgiven, I’m worthy of… I’m worth something again.” He bit his cheek. Aziraphale did hope he was being careful. His teeth could be quite sharp when he was upset.

“Darling,” Aziraphale sighed. His demon was, perhaps by definition, hopeless. “I don’t think that’s the case at all.”

Crowley glanced up through furrowed brows. He really could be dense.

“If I had to wager a guess, She never _stopped_ loving you. You just couldn’t sense it.” 

Crowley’s lips parted, like a million sentences were jostling to get out a revolving door in one go. “Then why--,” he started, then stopped. “How can--.” He stuttered into silence, just staring at Aziraphale like he hoped the angel already knew what he was trying to say. Aziraphale could already see the pieces slotting into place behind his golden eyes.

He could see the hope flicker in his eyes, and he hoped the demon was imagining this; Aziraphale loved him, dearly, unbearably. Had done for a good long while, and just because Crowley couldn't always feel it didn't mean it wasn't true. It could stand to reason that this worked universally, couldn't it?

“I can’t imagine She ever stopped loving you because I know of nobody more deserving of Her love. There is nobody braver, or smarter, or more devilishly handsome,” he added teasingly. He reached out, and he took Crowley’s hand, and he felt the warmth of the love he could already see.

Crowley held his hand solidly, and he searched Aziraphale’s eyes. Whatever he found, it seemed to be enough, because he squeezed back and he smiled.

It was a soft smile, but it was so open, so peaceful, that it stole Aziraphale’s breath.

He’d had a whole speech planned. He’d planned it while he was hurtling towards home in the Bentley. He’d say, _If She doesn’t love you, She’s a fool. If She doesn’t love you, Her love can’t be worth that much._

_If She doesn’t love you, I don’t have any need of Her love, either._

Later, there would be talks. Later, a demon would try to capture in words, in rough approximations of poetry, a Talk with Mum. He’d remember it fondly, sometimes, and angrily, sometimes, but in the end he’d admit that he’d gotten used to the quiet and peace that came from the lack of background noise. He’d had 6000 years to get used to it, after all

Later, an angel would prod a bit, would ask if he couldn’t just borrow Crowley’s eyes for a night, if he couldn’t just drive them into town for dinner, and the demon would huff and make a face in his best attempt to hide his smile, because it was flattering, in a weird way, and it was a way the angel showed his love.

Later, there would be a wedding, and there would be a slow dance that was really just standing still, swaying slightly, Crowley’s hands on the angel’s hips and Aziraphale’s on the demon’s shoulder, and they would each look into their husband’s eyes, and know that they were loved. Crowley would think how it didn't matter if She loved them because they had made more than enough love for themselves right here. 

(He might not quite believe Aziraphale's theory, but he'd made his peace with many things, and one of those things was that Aziraphale was usually right. So, for his angel's sake, he'd try to believe him, or at the very least try not to let not believing him bring him down.)

And the small congregation would dab at their eyes, or would sneak bits of frosting off of the extravagant cake, and they’d think that this was an amazingly lovely service. They’d find a small windfall of money afterwards, perhaps, or that their ill dog was making a miraculous recovery, but they’d also be unable to find good parking for a month and the sprinkler would hit them on the way to work the next morning so it rather looked like they’d pissed themselves, and they’d have to head back in and change or else head into work looking like _that_.

All of these things would happen later. But here, in the warmth of that moment, Aziraphale knew he didn’t need those words. Crowley knew, and Aziraphale knew, and that was enough.

They sat holding hands in their kitchen in their home, and they knew, and that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished it! I had a hard time finishing this one, and I changed what happened several times. I wouldn't say it's my best story, but I still think it's one worth sharing, so if you've made it to the end I hope you found something in it :)


End file.
